The walk-in closet's climate-controlled air kissed our skin as we emerged, Emma's fingers threaded possessively through mine. She'd raided the racks for vintage band tees and ripped jeans—my old Metallica shirt swallowed her frame, smelling faintly of cedar and me.
The scent clung as we ascended the back stairs to the main house.
Halfway down, Sarah sat perched on the polished mahogany steps, scrolling lazily through her phone. She glanced up, eyes sharp. "Mom almost walked in on your 'shower conference'," she said, voice dry as desert wind.
Emma shivered, pressing closer to my side.
Sarah shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Relax. I redirected her to the rose garden. Said you were… adjusting the gym's new sound system." She met my gaze. "You owe me."
